The Forgotten Holocaust

Chapter Sixty

The stable block was dark. Billy Bob Moon reached into his pocket for the key McCrory had given him, shone his torch on the tack-room door and popped open the padlock. He undid the top bolt, then the lower, opened the door a crack and shone his torch inside, peering in after it. ‘Li’l pig, li’l pig, let me in,’ he said softly.

Erin was sitting in the corner, her back against the whitewashed wall, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around her shins. She looked up in fear and defiance, blinking at the light beam playing on her face, and Moon had a stab of pleasure when he saw she’d been crying.

‘Told ya I’d be back, angel wings.’ He pulled the torch back to hold it under his chin, flashed her a demonic smile, then withdrew his head from the crack in the door and turned to Coyle. ‘I’ll be a couple of minutes. Keep your eyes open and your fuckin’ ears shut. Know what I mean?’

‘Nobody said anything about this, bro,’ Coyle said, getting the message.

‘Ain’t your bro, copper.’ Moon grinned at him. ‘S’matter, you worried you won’t get a piece when I’m done?’ He stepped inside the tack-room and shut the door.

‘Together at last,’ he said, shining the torch in her eyes.

Erin rose blinking to her feet, but before she could make a sound or a move, he rushed her and stunned her with a blow to the neck, then punched her in the face. Her head flopped back and he caught her as she fell. Moon helped himself to a good, long feel as he lowered her to the floor. ‘Oh, yes,’ he breathed. ‘You and me. Sweet baby.’

‘Everything all right in there?’ Coyle’s voice said from outside.

‘Shut it,’ Moon snapped back.

He knelt beside her, unslung his M4 and laid it on the floor, then positioned the torch so that its beam shone across her body. Reaching behind his hip, he drew the black USMC Ka-Bar knife from its leather sheath.

Sitting holding a knife over the yielding body of a woman was such a good feeling. Moon pushed the point of the knife in between the buttons of her blouse and angled it so he could peer inside, giving himself a sneak preview of what was to come. Nice. Very nice.

The knife froze in his hand for an instant as multiple gunshots sounded, muffled by distance and the buildings.

‘Something’s happening,’ Coyle said.

Moon heaved a sigh and twisted his head round to bark, ‘Hear your voice one more time, dude, I swear.’ He’d waited too long for this to be distracted. Ritter could handle things out there.

Moon slashed a strip of cloth from Erin’s shirt with the razor-sharp blade and used it to tie a gag around her mouth. The knife was no longer needed, for now. As he was slipping it back in its sheath, he heard more distant gunfire; a single shot this time, the fat low boom of a twelve-gauge that sounded like it had come from the house. Moon paused, detecting the sound of Coyle moving about nervously behind the tack-room door. This time the cop had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

‘See, they got’m,’ Moon muttered under his breath. ‘Nothing to get all jacked up about.’

He had better things to do. Oh, so much better. He ran a hand up along the curve of the unconscious woman’s thigh and hip, savouring the moment, taking his time. The hand continued upwards, slithering over her. It reached her shoulder then moved across her throat, lingered there for a second as he wondered what it would be like to strangle her when she was still unconscious, totally yielding and passive. That was something he’d never tried before. Then he could do her when she was dead: which was something he’d only done once before, and enjoyed; but it was hard to decide whether it would be more fun than doing her while she was awake and fighting back, and then strangling her. Or using the knife on her.

So many options. These were the kinds of fundamental questions that generally preoccupied much of his thinking. Whatever he chose, nobody would mind. Why hold on to the bait now that the fish were biting?

He decided to do her while she was still alive, then use the knife. There’d be others. His hand continued moving. Very slowly, he undid one button of her blouse. He ran his tongue over his lips. Undid another button, inserted a finger and drew the soft cotton back a little so he could see the lacy material of her bra. ‘Ooh. Baby. Uncle Moon’s gonna give you some lovin’.’ He moved down to the next button.

‘There’s something—’ Coyle began outside the door, but never finished.

Moon heard a thud. ‘Damn it, I told you to keep quiet!’ he yelled.

Something hammered the door, hard. Moon snapped his body up and away from the woman on the floor, snatched up his torch, stepped furiously to the door and wrenched it open to shine the light in Coyle’s face and aim a punch through it, knocking the fucker’s teeth out for disturbing him.

No Coyle.

Moon stepped out of the tack-room, shone the torch up the aisle that ran alongside the stalls. ‘Hey cop, where’d you go?’

No reply. Coyle must have gone back to join the others.

‘Fuck’m,’ Moon said, only mildly disappointed that he wouldn’t get to kill the guy after he’d done with the woman. He’d been toying with the idea for a couple of hours, for no other particular reason than he didn’t like Coyle’s face. And he was a cop. It had been a while since he’d iced a cop. Somehow it was more fun than killing real people. Killing a bent cop was even better. What could anyone do about it? Call the police? Moon thought that was hilarious.

He turned back inside the tack-room and something hit him a slamming blow to the face. His vision exploded white and he was suddenly on his back, trying to look up through the mist of stars. Blood filled his mouth and nose.

The man standing over him seemed to have appeared from nowhere, as if he’d risen out of the ground.